


Reichenbach Speech applied to Tarmac Scene- Feels Follow

by makingwordsgo



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe- Scene Combination, Angst and Feels, John Watson's Reichenbach Feels, M/M, Reichenbach Angst, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, The Tarmac Scene (Sherlock)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-07 21:59:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11632767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makingwordsgo/pseuds/makingwordsgo
Summary: This is an AU based off of a Tumblr post (created by johnlockshire) that suggested we combine the "Goodbye, John" speech with the Tarmac Scene where Sherlock was being sent to embark on a mission that would most certainly kill him. I wrote this based off of that idea, but the idea itself is not at all mine.Update!!! Just went in and fixed a typo, and added an extra sentence. Please, for the love of god, tell me if it sucks. :) Thanks y'all.





	Reichenbach Speech applied to Tarmac Scene- Feels Follow

**Author's Note:**

> I'm taking all critisim and suggestions! Please let me know any thoughts. Enjoy!

John stepped out of the cab, glancing around in search for a familiar head of hair. As he looked, he noted the long, open airplane runway, and more importantly, the plane itself parked away, far enough where it wouldn't run you over, and close enough to walk there in a minute or so in no hurry. Although weary from the journey here and the strange settings, his mood was instantly uplifted as he saw his best friend. His scarf was wrapped about his neck, his coat buttoned tightly around his slender frame. He watched, fascinated, as his dark curls twisted against the wind. Though particularly haggard, his face was a welcome sight these days. 

John fondly replayed memories of them together past his eyes, something he found happening rather often in the past while. Sherlock and John dancing hand in hand to the detectives brilliant musical compositions and John's own coarse, tenor voice, or John and Sherlock sharing tea and jokes after a case until they fell asleep in their chairs. The memories were awash in a buttery light, and John felt his cheeks flush against the cold. Sherlock and John. The two of them, a solid and wondrous thing. An island in a raging sea, the friendship between John and his very extraordinary flatmate was how he kept himself sane in a world filled to the brim of strange.

Sherlock stopped in front of him, his eyes oddly glassy. John looked at his friend, then at the plane behind him, then at Sherlock once more. He felt he missed something. 

"Sherlock, what's going on? Why have you-" he turned his head around like an owl, letting his sentence trail off. Sherlock didn't pick it back up, which was unlike him. John spoke again.

"Sherlock." Harder this time. Persistent. "What is this?" He asked, feeling pressure build up in his chest like a balloon. The plane. The mysterious location. Were they leaving together? He saw Sherlock stuff his hands in his coat pockets. He spoke not towards John, but to the ground. John had never seen Sherlock with this little confidence.

"An apology." Two words. They didn't make sense. 

"Wh-what?" 

"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty." John felt a cold wave hit him. 

"Why are you saying this?" He asked. He shook his head, shifted his weight. Sherlock looked pained. 

"I'm a fake." John stared into his best friends face. He scrutinized every detail. The way his nose crinkles when he smiles. The cheekbones that could slit a throat. John held his breath as he looked into Sherlocks eyes. Normally full of life, a window into a mind of gears and wires, the greenish hue of his irises looked flat and dead. John tore his gaze away, and joined Sherlock in staring at the ground. 

"Sherlock..." He said, his body tensing as if a bomb were to go off. 

"The newspapers were right all along." 

Boom. There was the explosion John braced for. Sherlock shook his head, finally looking up. John met his eyes once more, unwavering. 

"I want you to tell Lestrade, and I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly... In fact, tell anyone that will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes," Sherlock spoke softly now, his voice dripping with pain. John swallowed the lump in his throat. Despite the urge to throw up, he made himself talk. 

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met.. the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?" He asked, borderline frantic. He realized at this moment that losing Sherlock really would be the death of him. Despite this being the most ridiculous time for it, his brain shifted gears entirely. He put together the puzzle he had been hiding for so long. He was in love. This eccentric, beautiful, glorious man had stolen John Watson's heart right out from under him. John was aware that he couldn't get it back, so he decided that at least the holder was not allowed to leave. 

"Nobody could be that clever." John felt as if he had been stabbed in the stomach. 

"You could," He was begging now. This plane was not for the two of them. It was just for one. 

"I researched you," Sherlock said, his voice tiny. His eyes were everywhere on Johns face. They glistened, and his bottom lip trembled.

"Before we met, I... I discovered everything that I could to impress you." John couldn't breathe. Sherlocks eyes were on his lips. 

"It’s a trick. Its just a magic trick." 

They stared at each others faces, neither of them speaking, both of them trying to absorb the others features into memory forever. John felt sicker by the second but didn't dare break his eyes away from his flatmate. Sherlocks own were wet, and his cheeks were wet, and the wind stung like needles. John reached out for Sherlocks hand to stop him from leaving. To stabilize himself. To make the world quit spinning. 

Sherlock pulls away. He pries John off of his wrist, squeezes his eyes shut, and turns. 

John chokes back either a scream or a sob. Sherlock is walking away, and once he gets on that plane, he isn't coming back. 

"No. Alright, stop it, now," He says, surprisingly calm. He takes a few steps forward, reaching out again for his best friend. Sherlock hears his footsteps and immediately comes to a halt. 

"No, stay exactly where you are," He commands, turning around to face John. His face is streaked with tears.

"Don't move."

"Alright." John is still reaching forward. His limbs are frozen.

Sherlock stepped towards him now. He walked delicately, as if the asphalt near John was going to crumble under their very feet. His eyes were no longer flat. They seethed with something that made John dizzy. Sherlock reached out to John, his gloves removed. He clasped the sides of his face, blue eyes against green.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me," Sherlock had his hands framing the curve of his cheeks, his jawline, his brow. He was everywhere and nowhere, a warmth to light fires that could only burn through the lining of Johns internal organs, one by one. This touch would be okay in any other situation- after a case, their blood still laced with the adrenaline from a chase. In the flat, tipsy and loose and alone with nothing but more alcohol and time. At Angelos, with the crappy food and pushy servers, the cheesy candle to make it more 'romantic'. Anywhere. John longed for any way that wasn't this. He never wanted this. John felt something like a car crash in his chest, and Sherlock looked as if he was dying.

In a way, John supposed he was.

"Please, will you do this for me?" He begged.

"Do- do what?" John replied, his voice barely audible. They were only a few inches apart, and neither of them had to make much noise to be heard over the bitterly cold wind. 

"This conversation... Its, er, it's my note." The silence, though lasting just a moment, was heavy. John blinked, uncomprehending. 

"Its what people do, don't they?" Sherlock asked, a ghost of a smile on his face. 

"Leave a note?"

"Leave a note when?" John asked this, the words foul-tasting. He stared at the man in front of him, and finally allowed himself to understand. This was his note. 

This was not just the end of Sherlocks life. 

This was the end of Johns, as well. 

John reached up and wrapped his hands around the wrists that held his face. Sherlock and John remained like this for an unbearable amount of time, painfully close to each other and still so far away. John ached to feel his best friend against him, to convince him that he needed to stay, that he deserved to stay. 

That life without him was worthless. 

Sherlock pried his gaze from Johns lips, met his eyes once more, and spoke. 

"Goodbye, John."

John felt his heart shatter and fall into his stomach. He felt Sherlocks soft hands run across the grooves of his face, the stubble on his chin and cheeks. 

He felt a thumb on his bottom lip.

"No. Don't." He closed his eyes, maybe to invite Sherlocks lips to his own, maybe so he wouldn't have to see him leave, but as the warmth of Sherlocks fingers receded and such a big hole opened in Johns chest where his heart used to be, he began to think it didn't matter. He opened his eyes again, only to see his best friend, his soulmate, leaving. 

His footsteps were the heaviest sounds he had yet to hear. 

"No.. Sherlock!" He screamed and took a step forward, then felt a numbness run through him, like some sort of ice-cold electric current. Sherlock flinched, but he didn't turn. He kept walking, and he left John standing there, feeling as if all the bones in his body were broken. 

"Sher-" He gasped out, his voice caught in his throat. His fists balled. Sherlock got on the plane. John felt a new wave of sickness and hurt wash over him, so potent he fell to his knees and vomited.

He heard the plane engine roar to life. He listened to it barrel past him, he listened to the sound of Sherlock leaving him, abandoning him. He gagged again, nothing came up. 

His world spun, splintered, and fell apart. John pulled his hands over his eyes, and sat there. Twenty minutes passed, plane long gone, and John sat there still. 

He stayed there, unmoving. When he finally did manage to get up, it felt like he was made of lead. John had left his life on that runway- no, it had left him. He never managed to recover.


End file.
